


don't walk away

by carpethefanfics



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Canon Divergent, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Heartache, Heartbreak, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, M/M, Post-Break Up, Self Harm, Shameless style violence, Smoking, Top Ian Gallagher, Violence, explicit - Freeform, sweaing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24452809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpethefanfics/pseuds/carpethefanfics
Summary: The Aftermath of 3x06.Mickey’s eyes narrow, “Not a big deal? Not a- you could have fuckin died and from the state of your goddamn hands Gallagher-” Mickey clasps Ian’s hingers in his own hand and lifts, “you didn’t put up much of a fucking fight-” Ian tenses, “So you’re lying about fucking something.”Mickey raises the bag of frozen peas to rest against the side of Ian’s face and Ian flinches at the cold- both against his skin and in Mickey’s questioning tone. But lying has always come easy to Ian, “Caught me off guard- three on one, didn’t have a chance in hell.”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	don't walk away

**Author's Note:**

> No marrying Svet, no pregnancy. Just the aftermath of Mickey and Ian getting caught. Terry making sure Ian gets what he thinks he has coming. Mostly from Ian's perspective- a lot of guilt, some self-harm, & definitely Shameless style violence.
> 
> Play Hold On by Chord Overstreet. Also Let's hurt Tonight by OneRepublic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The breakup and Terry's revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets violent. If that's hard for you to read, please don't.

Mickey won’t look at him.

And Ian would be a fucking liar if he said it didn’t break everything inside him; if it didn’t make him feel like he’d lost everything in those few seconds between Terry Milkovich opening the front door and the pistol slamming into Mickey’s skull. He wants to drag his fingers over what will surely become a scar and tell Mickey that everything is going to be okay- that there is a still a path to freedom where they can be together.

But Mickey was raised to be southside through and through; it was beaten into him with broken noses and bruised up knuckles and the slurs that spilled over his father’s lips every waking second of his goddamn life. So, when Ian pleads with him to admit just this fucking once that he’s in love with him before he pours salt on whatever it is that they have left just to make sure it can never fucking grow, Mickey hits him. The blood pooling in Ian’s mouth as he looks up at the sky and listens to the crunch of Mickey’s feet on the gravel- listens to Mickey leaving him behind, is enough to make him want to give up.

And he does.

For a few weeks. It’s the first time he’s one hundred percent committed to taking his medications because he needed to feel numb. It was much cheaper and definitely way less painful than drowning in alcohol. He cries way too much the first few days as the medications take hold. Let’s his body get sore from lying down for too long; let’s his eyes burn from staring at the wall; let’s his stomach shrivel and scream out at him. Then the numbness takes hold and he’s able to walk through the world again.

His siblings are afraid- they don’t understand why he came back from wherever he had been (Mickey’s) covered in blood and bruises and a gaping wound on the side of his head. They understand it even less when he comes back a couple of days later from wherever he had been (abandoned building) with more blood on his shirt and another bruise on his face. They plead with him to explain; to help them _understand_. Fiona strokes his hair and Lip passes him a cigarette and Liam tucks him in once or twice because fuck, he’s just a little kid he doesn’t know what to do. But when the days turn into weeks and he’s walking through the house like his soul has been separated from his body- which might sound dramatic but that’s what it mother fucking feels like- they get angry. Lip rails in on him about wasting his fucking life away on a common criminal; Fiona rails in on him about seeing his therapist; and in the end, he just takes it.

Before the pills, Ian would have raged back. Thrown a fucking chair, defended Mickey until the ends of the earth, maybe even left, but that’s not who he wants to be right now. There’s no energy inside him for anything more than waking up, drinking coffee, walking around and busing tables at the diner.

But the insomnia starts to bear down on him around week four of this routine and all he can do is wander out into the city in the night. He starts slowly at first- sticking to streets where the Alibi stands and moving farther out. He avoids Mickey’s street like the plague because even though his feelings are all fucking mangled inside him there is one thing that he is sure about … he couldn’t stop himself from knocking on the door if he tried.

He thinks about Mickey a lot on the walks though. He asks Mandy about him- who checks in from time to time but is still distancing herself from the Gallaghers thanks to Lip and his inability to be with someone who isn’t totally fucking psychotic.

There are also flashes of his last day in the Milkovich house that run through him until he’s ragged. He could barely meet Mickey’s eyes that day- fuck, he could barely see straight with the way Terry had slammed in on his head. He remembers feeling so lost and angry and empty. He had wanted to pull that gun out of Terry’s hands and put a bullet between his eyes. He had wanted to cart Mickey out of there and leaving fucking flaming tracks marks behind them from how fast they ran. He wanted to offer Mickey a new world- but he hadn’t accounted for the fact that Mickey hadn’t wanted that. Hadn’t wanted him or… hadn’t wanted him _enough_ anyway.

Those are the thoughts that still make his eyes burn and water. That made him rip the cigarette from his lips and press the burning tip against his wrist. He could hear his sister and his doctors in his head when he did it. _What were you thinking Ian? What were you feeling? Why would you do this to yourself? Such an unhealthy coping mechanism, Ian. This is why Mickey’s no good for you._ Sometimes, he could even hear Mickey. _Jesus Christ Ian_. But then he would do it again just to silence it.

Easier to focus on a burn then remind yourself you’ve lost it all.

*

It isn’t until week six that he gets to see Mickey again and it’s for all the wrong reasons.

He had been wandering the southside trying to shake the insomnia off his shoulders when he had lost his train of thought and found himself in a part of the southside that even he probably shouldn’t have been. The streetlights are all fucking broken and there are a few tweakers in alley ways as he turns back the way he came. But then he hears his name and the deep voice makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise. After that, it’s a fucking blur.

Ian’s pretty sure its three men but there are way too many fucking fists are flying at him to know for sure. They crash over his jaw, his nose, the side of his head, his ribs- _fuck is there anywhere they weren’t going to fucking hit?_ Nasty slurs about being a _fucking faggot, taking it like a fucking faggot, liking what he’s getting,_ fall from their lips. Ian tunes it out as the pain radiates from his ribs, across he’s broken nose and down his aching back.

The part of him that is a survivor- that understands that the fight or flight response is so deeply ingrained in who he’s always been- some skinny gay kid from the southside, even if he’s not entirely that skinny anymore- is screaming at him. _Hit, kick, punch, bite, scream, run._ But he doesn’t. He isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s the meds that make him more complacent or maybe there’s some sick twisted up part of him that feels like he deserves this. Like its karma telling him, _you didn’t protect Mickey now, Mickey is nowhere to protect you._

The last thing he hears before he lets the unconsciousness take hold, before he hears and feels spit hit him right on the cheek is _Terry says hi._

When he wakes up his coat is gone with his pack of smokes and his skin could be fucking blue from how cold he feels but he’s thankful that at least it’s barely the beginning of winter. His eyes painfully flick open as they adjust to the bright light and he realizes he’s still on the goddamn sidewalk. There’s someone standing over him who quickly jumps as his eyes adjust and runs off as he sits up. He clutches his ribs and shakes at the utter fucking ache that hits him. He grunts in pain as he moves to stand; it’s a really fucking slow process so he’s sure they must have done quite a number.

He turns to see his reflection in the dirty glass window of an abandoned store. _Jesus fuck_. His face is a litter of bruises and dry blood and his lip is definitely cracked in more than one place. It’s almost funny that, for one thing, they hit him in the exact same place Terry had hit him that day and for another, that he had chosen a white shirt because now it’s just fucking smattered with blood and the distinct imprint of fists. The guys clearly had coated their knuckles in his blood before they moved on to his rib cage.

The walk home is slow. People flit their eyes over him briefly before moving on with their days- typical fucking southside reaction to a brawler coming home from what they’ll probably assume it a bar brawl or a gang hit or some other dumb shit besides Ian getting his ass handed to him by his boyfriend’s dad’s criminal friends. When he gets onto his street his muscles are aching a little less- probably from actually being used again- and he can hear an incredibly heated argument up the block.

_“Where the fuck is he you piece of shit?!”_

_“How the fuck should I know?!”_

The closer he comes to the sound the more he realizes he recognizes those voices. His eyes start to water, and he can’t stop the tears from trailing down his cheeks- he’s sure to wipe them away as his house comes into focus because there he is. **_Mickey_**. He’s standing on the sidewalk screaming at his sister whose standing on the porch with her hair wild and her hairs wide. He’s got his eyes fixed on Mickey as he continues to pace forwards- he wishes he wasn’t in so much pain just for a moment so he could wrap his arms around him.

“Ian!”

His sister voice comes out like a strangled cry and that’s when Mickey’s head turns- beautiful blue eyes meeting his own. Ian watches his eyebrows shoot up to his face like it’s almost slow motion. There are so many things he wants to say that are trapped in the rawness of his throat and the fact that his sister is standing there- _I love you, I miss you, let me take you away_.

“Holy fucking shit Ian, what happened to you!?”

Fiona’s running down the steps and shoving Mickey out of her way to get to him. Her hands immediately go to his face and he sucks in a quick breath of air because _fuck don’t touch the bruises oh my god_. His eyes close for a brief second as her hands carefully flutter over his shoulders and down to his arms. She looks absolutely distraught. She’s muttering the whole time, “Ian oh my god baby, oh my god,” but all Ian can do is focus over her shoulder at Mickey whose standing like a fucking rock with glassy eyes and balled fists.

His voice is loud enough that Mickey can hear him but comes out breathy because moving his jaw goddamn hurts, “M’fine. Really.”

He starts to walk forward again with Fiona jumping to move behind him, her hands shooting out to brace him but not entirely touch him, she looks so panicked, but Ian just braces for the way the pain radiates up his body as it adjusts to moving again. He comes to the gate, his eyes focused on Mickey still, he can’t say it, but he hopes Mickey knows- _come in, I’ll explain, holy fuck I missed you._

So, Mickey does as Ian takes one porch step after another, as he grunts his way up trying to muffle the agony that’s definitely slipping through, as he reaches out to brace himself on the handrail. He can almost feel the tension behind him. He’s sure Mickey and Fiona are staring hard at him- they want to help, they want to reach out, but Ian won’t ask or look back. He just trusts that they’re following them inside.

When they get there, Ian moves towards the couch and stands with his back to it wondering how the fuck he’s going to lean back to sit down without crying out and startling the clearly freaked out people around him. Mickey stands stoically close to the front door and Fiona runs to get the first aid kit, to get frozen peas or ice, to get a wet washcloth, to get _anything_ really that could help.

Ian starts to bend his knees and reaches out his hand to brace the arm of the couch but as gravity pulls him back so he’s sitting he can’t help the strangled cry that breaks over his lips or the way his eyes sting from the ribs that he thinks are probably broken. But then Ian feels a warm palm slide against his back, another moving quickly under his armpit. It’s like Mickey moves forward on fucking instinct to brace Ian and ease him into the couch. Ian turns his face up as much as he can to look at Mickey, more unspoken conversations passing between them that thankfully Mickey understands- _thank you, I need you, please sit and stay_ \- because he moves to sit in the chair across from Ian.

Then Fiona’s back in a fucking flurry dropping everything she’s grabbed onto the coffee table and trying to button a white shirt up and speaking in a hurricane about how she’s late for work but, she had been looking for him and he doesn’t have to come in for his shift and she has to go. Ian reaches out to grasp her hand, to still her for a second, which she does which her eyes still so wide.

Ian’s voice is soft, “I’ll be here when you get home.”

She chews her bottom lip hesitantly, “You call me if you need anything.” Then her eyes flicker over to Mickey with a harsh glare and an even harsher jerk of her head, “You. Be fucking useful.”

When the door slams shut there’s a brief few seconds where Ian isn’t entirely sure what to do or say but his eyes close tightly as he sighs out a breath of air that he’s been holding in. It’s enough to make Mickey move silently from the chair to the coffee table- enough to make him pick up the cooling warm washcloth and blot it over the dry blood of Ian’s face. His hands are tentative, and Ian keeps his eyes closed because he isn’t sure he can take the look on Mickey’s face of fear and pity.

He focuses on the gentleness of Mickey instead. He doesn’t press too hard, but he continues under Ian’s eyes, around his nose, across his forehead. He folds the washcloth to a cleaner space and then moves down Ian’s neck, to his arms, to his hands. Mickey’s touch is grounding at the same time that it fucking hurts him. He had always been like this with Ian which he knows sounds absolutely fucking crazy considering Mickey had punched him and screamed at him more times than people probably ever should.

But honestly, in their moments, moments Ian seared into his memory, Mickey was **soft**. He would cart his fingers through Ian’s hair in the mornings when the sun was starting to rise, and he thought Ian was still asleep. He would let his fingers drift down Ian’s neck to his chest when they were wound up in each other’s lips and mouths. He would stare, across the bar or the kitchen or the fucking dug out, and in that space before Mickey let his mouth get the better of him Ian felt so fucking naked.

But Mickey breaks the trance, “She called me with you didn’t come home.”

Ian’s eyes flicker open to see the worry and anger in Mickey’s features, “What happened?”

Ian isn’t entirely sure what to say. He wants to tell Mickey that his father had put something out into the community of southside’s convicted assholes about a ginger Gallagher with a proclivity for dick. That he probably didn’t say anything about Mickey- he was a fucking Milkcovich after all, even if he was gay- but that he got his payback by fucking up Ian. That it probably wouldn’t be the last time and it was an accident Ian was walking out there at all. Ian isn’t even sure if he could get through that lie that he had tried to fight back.

But he also knows Mickey and he doesn’t want him going after the guys that did this. He doesn’t want to give Terry any more reason to go after Mickey with his fists and pistols and whatever the fuck else he uses to keep Mickey walking a _straight_ line. He doesn’t want to be the reason Mickey is put in danger again- that his life is at risk over something as fucking ridiculous as _him_.

So, he finds the in between, “Just some guys looking to fag bash. Didn’t get a good look.” It’s not entirely a lie.

He watches Mickey’s jaw clench and feels his hand still against his wrist. Ian feels his fingers brush over the marks there and his eyes flicker down before coming back to meet Ian’s, “They put fucking _cigarettes_ out on you?”

It would be easy to say yes- to tell Mickey that on top of the life-or-death beating he’d been given they finished him off by stubbing out their cigarette butts on his fucking arms. It’s better than the other reason he can feel on his lips- the fucking brutal truth of it all that Ian knows would make Mickey rile up and freak out and tell his sister that on top of everything Ian’s hurting himself now too. So, he finds the in between again. He’s always been good at that.

Ian sighs as Mickey’s hand pulls back from his arm, “It’s not a big deal Mick.”

Mickey’s eyes narrow, “Not a big deal? Not a- you could have _fuckin died_ and from the state of your goddamn hands Gallagher-” Mickey clasps Ian’s hingers in his own hand and lifts, “you didn’t put up much of a fucking fight-” Ian tenses, “So you’re lying about fucking something.”

Mickey raises the bag of frozen peas to rest against the side of Ian’s face and Ian flinches at the cold- both against his skin and in Mickey’s questioning tone. But lying has always come easy to Ian, “Caught me off guard- three on one, didn’t have a chance in hell.”

Mickey’s eyes flick across his face as he continues his ministrations of making sure all the blood is off Ian, making sure the wounds are disinfected and popping him a few Advil. He nods at Ian’s words and Ian doesn’t think he entirely believes him but that he realizes Ian’s in pain so he’s going to let it go… for now.

When he’s done, he uses his fingers to lift Ian’s chin and inspect him one more time, “Need to shower?”

Ian’s tongue flicks out his broken lips and jerks his head slowly, “Just wanna sleep Mick.”

Mickey nods and moves to stand but Ian reaches out to touch his knee, Mickey stills, “Don’t think I can walk up more stairs.”

Mickey nods again, like he’s afraid to speak or afraid he’ll fucking burst from the hundred questions he’s got for Ian and the energy building that makes him want to go postal on these three guys.

Ian starts to try to lift his legs, but he’s never had broken and bruised ribs before, not this bad anyway, so he feels the choked grunt fall from his lips as the pain strangles him again. Mickey’s hands are immediately on him- moving his legs, leaning him back, bracing his neck, lifting his hips. It still really fucking hurts to move but feeling Mickey, having him this close after nearly three months, it’s exactly what he wants to focus on. He smells like he’s just showered, the shampoo’s perfume still clinging, but as he leans closer Ian can tell he’s definitely smoked a few cigarettes since then.

“Thanks Mick,” Ian feels the rest of the sentence get lodged in his throat- _for helping me, for being there for me, for coming just because Fiona called, for wanting to help me more than you fear your dad_.

As his eyes drift closed, he feels Mickey’s hand move through his hair, it’s calming and grounding and so fucking familiar Ian could cry. He feels the content sigh leave him and cranes his head slowly into it.

“Course,” Mickey’s voice is the soft lull that he drifts off too.

*


End file.
